


west coast

by aspiringpencilcase



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, a few months after the end of the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringpencilcase/pseuds/aspiringpencilcase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>parting ways and unspoken words</p>
            </blockquote>





	west coast

Hawke can't stay, Isabela won't - they both know it, it's pointless to stop the current. Kirkwall isn't safe for them, at the very least, for Hawke; she's a mage and sort of the very image of the rebellion, so they run. For the forest, for the ocean, for Ferelden, for Orlais - but mostly, for their lives.

They don't stick together for long; Isabela looks at the sea with longing, waves dancing in her dark eyes as they walk by the coast. Sometimes Hawke catches herself thinking that there’s no person Isabela will love more than the sea, her blood being its salt, her hair running smooth like its waves. This impression cuts especially sharp when they say goodbye to each other, Isabela’s ship anchored behind her, ready to set off. It seems right, Isabela’s lit from inside, sunlight loosely braided into her hair; pirate hat and high boots and everything.

“The only thing you lack right now is a parrot. A very loud and annoying one”, Hawke laughs, hands hidden in the folds of her cloak. 

Isabela snorts at her remark, looking disgusted by the idea.

“That Colton boy will serve as one, at least by his volume. If he wouldn’t such a damn good sailor I’d kick him off the ship,” she says, hand on her hip, the very definition of confidence. 

“Wanna see her, by the way? She’s even better than the Siren’s Call and that’s a hell of a compliment, let me tell you”, Isabela’s voice is low, suggestive, pure silk on the opposite of the rough leather of her gloves and Hawke founds herself incapable of denying her (Isabela is her wine, heady and too much at once, blood rushing to her head).

They walk the narrow corridors of the ship in relative silence, Isabela humming something resembling songs they used to sing in Hanged Man, drunk and happy, and Hawke is thinking of where she’ll go next: maybe she’ll visit Carver, or maybe she’ll go to Denerim, or maybe, or maybe.

The door opens with only a little effort; they come in. 

“Looks gorgeous”, says Hawke, because it does - red fabrics tangle with the rich brown of the wood, sun dances on the little mirror near a small bed and Isabela, self-assured, belonging, plays with her dagger, leaning on the doorframe. 

“You bet it does”, Isabela closes the door with her foot; a step, another step, and her hands are on Hawke’s waist. Hawke smiles and leans in for a kiss, tracing the bold curve of Isabela’s neck with her fingers.

Isabela is the first to pull away, but just as Hawke opens her mouth to ask Isabela what’s wrong, she shoves their mouths together again; clumsy, desperate, contrasting with the usual slow finesse. Hawke doesn’t have any time to mull over it, though, as Isabela takes a step backwards, dragging her along, and they fall onto the bed.

***

Hawke is covered with sweat, her breasts are raising and falling with her breath gradually slowing down and she is beautiful, green eyes and red hair and freckles and everything. Isabela wants to engrave every square inch of her into her memory and it’s terrifying. That’s the first time she’s ever felt so attached to another person; this reminds her of her mother fortunetelling, always whispering that her clients will find their one true love in this dramatic and very obviously (for Isabela, at least) fake voice.

She used to hide in the tiny room which was more of a closet and scoff at those people’s ignorance; surely she won’t be like this when she will grow up, she’ll be strong and independent and cool. 

Hawke lies next to her and Isabela wants it to remain like this forever.

“I’ll miss you, you know”, Hawke is quiet, yet the most serious Isabela has ever seen her since their showdown with Meredith. Isabela wants to answer that she feels the same, that Hawke is like her right arm and that she loves her: her eyes, steel themselves yet forgiving, her hair, fire in itself, her habit to mock everyone while helping them in the same time - but there’s this giant lump in her throat which seems to block her words while they try to crawl their way out, so she just nods.

Hawke smiles (like she always does) while untangling herself from Isabela; she’s downright perfect, Isabela thinks, but there’s no way she voices it out loud. She waits while Hawke gets dressed, watching the pale angles of her hips and wow.

She grabs her staff and stretches, bony arms high in the air, and turns around to look at Isabela still lying on the bed. 

“Hey, when are you setting sail?”, Hawke asks, voice carefully casual, hands steady on her staff. Isabela shrugs as she gets up.

“Soon, I think. The wind is nice and I’m itching to go out there already; the folk are also starting to get restless. So much gold not yet in our hands, outrageous.”

“Scandalous, for sure”, Hawke dutifully replies and iron knots inside Isabela seem to only tie themselves stronger at this. She doesn’t know how to fix this, how to fix things at all, so she just taps her fingers against the dry skin of her thigh. Hawke nods at the door, silently asking Isabela if she would see her out and knowing the answer already, of course. Quiet squeak of the hinges accompanies them as they leave Isabela’s quarters and let the wooden maze of the ship guide them back to the exit. 

They both hate goodbyes. Isabela remembers the way Varric and Hawke exchanged one brief hug and a joke before parting their ways, without even as much as glancing back to look at each other for one last time. The curve of Hawke’s frown set deep in her forehead afterwards didn’t disappear until they’d reached Ostwick; so it’s of no surprise to Isabela that a chaste kiss to her cheek is the most she gets as a farewell. Again, there’s this weird hitching thing her breath is doing, like back then by the fireplace in the Hanged Man when she told Hawke that she’s falling for her, wide-eyed and frustrated and hopeful. She wants to grab Hawke by her hand maybe and tell her things which always go unsaid between them; I love you, let’s conquer the sea together, you don’t have to do this alone.

She doesn’t.

Hawke nods at her, wishes her good luck and she reaches out for what Isabela thinks is a one last hug, but they never get there. Hawke’s hand falls back to her side; she smiles. Wind messes with her hair, it’s too short for her to tuck it behind her ear and this is how Isabela remembers her, tall against the setting sun.

When Hawke leaves, she doesn’t turn around. Isabela inhales the rich smell of salt and starts ordering the crew around so they’d departure faster. 

Something heavy hangs in the air; Isabela does her absolute best in order not to acknowledge it.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes u listen to lana's west coast and then u r just....... dat isafhawke and then u suffer. stay safe kids


End file.
